


working the late shift

by antiheroic



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Light Choking, M/M, Trans Rufus Shinra, Voyeurism, complicated employer/employee relationship, mentions of violent fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23843974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiheroic/pseuds/antiheroic
Summary: "You don't got nothin' better to do than fuck with me?""Better? Yes. More entertaining? No."Reno is sent on a mission to bug the Shinra HQ conference room. Rufus enjoys the show.(or: Rufus is a manipulative, uncommunicative bastard, and Reno likes him that way.)
Relationships: Reno/Rufus Shinra
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68





	working the late shift

It’s late. Shinra HQ is never deserted, really--too many damn workaholics pulling late shifts--but it’s quiet enough that Reno rides the elevator alone and uninterrupted to the 64th floor. He blends in amongst the few scattered office workers well; most of them wouldn’t recognize the Turks on sight, and Reno looks like a wholly different person with his shirt buttoned to his throat. None of these people know him, yet they all smile and say hello. He forces his way through small talk, laughing at unfunny jokes and feigning interest in stories of husbands and daughters as he makes his way to the kitchen, gathers glasses and a crystal pitcher and fills it with clear, cold water. Someone from R&D is making tea beside him. She thinks his name is Tashi, and is asking about his partner.  
  
"Sorry,” he says, ducking his head in self-admonishment. “Please excuse me, I have to set up the conference room for the directors’ meeting, and I’m running behind—”  
  
He bustles along, tray in one hand and a briefcase in the other. With a tap of his keycard he lets himself in, and busies himself arranging the glasses around the overly large table as the door slowly swings shut.  
  
_Click._  
  
Immediately he thumbs the top button of his shirt open and heaves a sigh, stretching his long arms overhead. There’s a series of loud crunches as something in his shoulder pops; if he had to guess, something got knocked out of place when he scrapped with the SOLDIER kid back at the church, and it just settled back _into_ place.  
  
He sets his briefcase down on the table and pops it open. There’s papers, of course, documents necessary for the meeting (thirty-seven minutes), but Reno puts those aside for the moment. Pulling a small knife from his belt, he pries the inside of the top lid open, and rescues a handful of small devices from the hidden compartment. They’re tiny, barely the size of his pinkie nail, but according to the boss they’ll do the trick. He just has to be careful about placement, so they’re not caught when one of Heidegger’s men does the pre-meeting sweep for bugs. Easy enough.  
  
“Dunno why I had to do this,” he mumbles to himself as he crouches down to examine the underside of the conference table. “This is some fresh meat shit, Elena coulda done it easy--”  
  
_“Because I enjoy watching you work, Reno.”_  
  
Reno yelps and jerks back, which is unfortunate given that he’s now on his hands and knees, fully beneath the conference table--he succeeds only in smacking his head against exceptionally expensive hardwood and triggering a loud _snap_ of crackling feedback in his right ear.  
  
“That’s weird, boss, I thought there weren’t any cameras in here,” he grumbles, rubbing the now-tender spot on the back of his head. The VP had been silent since the order came through, so Reno didn’t realize he was on the comm line. Not a mistake he’d make again; not a mistake he wanted the boss to know he’d made at all.  
  
The boss knew, and Reno knew he knew, and the boss knew that Reno knew that he knew--but Reno would never admit to it, and _that_ was what mattered.  
  
_“Not that_ you _have access to,”_ comes the smug response. Reno rolls his eyes and turns so that he can examine one of the table legs. There’s a small divot of space between the leg itself and where it’s cushioned into the carpeting. Just enough space.  
  
“If you got video already, why the hell am I here, _sir_?” Reno snarks back, slotting one of the bugs into the divot. He flips onto his back to look at the underside of the table.  
  
_“The president had the room remodeled last week.”_ Of course he has a practical answer. It’s infuriating. _“Tseng bugged it last year, but it all went out with the bathwater. A shame, really.”_  
  
“And they didn’t catch the camera because…?”  
  
_“I put it in the air duct, of course.”_  
  
“Of course.” Reno makes a silent note to bug the air duct and fuck with the camera. Not a lot, he tells himself. Just a little. Scratch a tiny dick into the lens or something. _r wuz heer. R_ could mean Reno, or Rude, or Rufus himself; there’s no way to know for sure. It’s the perfect crime.  
  
The table is solid wood--there’s no loose paneling for him to pry out to properly hide something, so he attaches one bug to the inner lip. A freebie, to make Heidegger’s men feel like they’ve done something useful.  
  
_“Just a moment,”_ the boss says thoughtfully as Reno twists around and begins to crawl out from under the table.  
  
“What?”  
  
_“There should be another suitable space in the carpeting beneath the table--if I’m not mistaken, there’s a vent in the floor to your left.”_  
  
There is no vent in the floor to Reno’s left.  
  
“There’s no vent, boss.”  
  
_“Turn just a bit to the right--no, back up a little--examine the floor carefully, you’ll see what I mean.”_ _  
  
_ Reno wants to reach through the comms and strangle him, but he won’t get paid to kill his boss, so instead he obediently drops to his elbows and _carefully examines_ the floor.  
  
“Boss, there’s _no vent._ ”  
  
A crackling hum over the comms. He sounds too pleased, given Reno’s irritation, and it’s making him suspicious; then again, the VP has always gotten a kick out of pushing Reno’s buttons. He just hasn’t been this stubborn about it since—  
  
Well.  
  
_“Isn’t there, though?”_  
  
Reno is sorely tempted to bash his head against the table and end his life then and there. “Hate to say it, but your info is bad. Get better rats.”  
  
_“Ah, my apologies.”_ Reno can _hear_ the smirk in his voice; he wants to _throttle_ him. _“That’s a different room. I was too busy enjoying the view to get my facts straight.”_  
  
And just like that Reno becomes acutely aware of his body: he’s on his knees and elbows, his ass hanging out from under the table, and he _knows_ that these tight office slacks weren’t made for crawling around. He can feel the seams digging into his inner thighs. For a moment, he doesn’t move--in two rapid-fire stages Reno realizes both that Rufus is making him squirm around and wiggle his ass for his own enjoyment, and that--well, yeah, Reno’s into it. Old habits die hard; fucking sue him.  
  
“Nothing about you is straight.” He aims for flippant, misses the mark; truth is, he’s pissed. He scrambles out from under the table faster than he should, gives himself a head rush, and decides to blame how warm he suddenly is on precisely that and nothing else. Checking his watch (thirty-two minutes), he pops the second button on his shirt. It’s restrictive, wearing clothes this unforgiving, and he needs airflow.  
  
_Yeah, whatever you need to tell yourself._  
  
_“You don’t say,”_ comes the dry response. Rufus is pitching his voice lower--there’s a crackle to the sound that wasn’t there before, and it sends a sudden hot shiver down Reno’s spine. He grits his teeth and moves on to the side table, where the president keeps a decanter of whisky, a box of cigars, a pot of blooming yellow flowers.  
  
“You don’t got nothin’ better to do than fuck with me?” Reno snaps. Skipping the liquor and cigars, he puts a bug inside the flower pot, carefully poking the soil around to hide it. Given how dry it is, he doubts it’s been watered in weeks, and frankly it’s a damn miracle the thing is still alive. He scans the room again, and tries to remember where Tuesti sits.  
  
_“Better? Yes. More entertaining? No.”_ _  
  
_ Right: third chair down, furthest from the president’s seat. Another bug goes on one of the back legs of the chair; Reno has to bend over to get a good look at the corner, make sure it sticks okay.  
  
He has to. For the job.  
  
An appreciative hum sounds in Reno’s ear. He staunchly ignores the heat kindling in his belly.  
  
“You need a damn hobby.”  
  
_“Oh?”_  
  
“Fuckin’--knit, or something, I dunno.”  
  
_“Knitting?”_ He hates how amused Rufus sounds.  
  
“Go bother Rude about it. He’s got patterns.”  
  
_“Rude doesn’t humor me the way you do.”_  
  
“I ain’t humoring shit.”  
  
A quiet laugh, and then: blessed silence. Took the hint, finally. Or, more likely, got pulled away to do actual work, instead of harassing his employee. Reno waits a moment, just to be certain that the VP isn’t just ruminating on the other end of the comm, but the quiet remains.  
  
It’s almost worse, really, because now Reno is angry and frustrated and vaguely turned on, and he doesn’t have anyone to take it out on. _Almost,_ because he’d still rather sit alone with his frustration than deal with whatever the hell kinda mood Rufus has wound himself into. He used to get like this, years ago; before he was VP, when Reno was the fresh meat saddled with shit jobs, when there was something other than a paycheck and orders between them. Back then it was fun, something like foreplay.  
  
Now, Reno doesn’t know what to make of it.  
  
Rude would call it mean.  
  
(twenty-seven minutes.)  
  
There’s a portrait of President Shinra hanging on the wall, and there’s something funny to Reno about the idea of bugging it, so he does. It’s easy enough to place in one of the hollow curves running along the back of the frame, tucked away just to the left of the president’s ear.  
  
With just one bug left and time to kill, he lays out the documents at each board member’s seat; he wraps a fine cloth napkin around the handle of the water pitcher, and moves the whisky to the president’s seat. President Shinra pours himself two fingers at the start of each meeting, but likes to leave the cigar box on the side table, because he gets a kick out of the melodrama of walking over to pick one out, cutting it, lighting it, returning to his seat to chew on it magnanimously. The VP inherited his flair for the dramatic.  
  
Reno wipes the side table down, pulls the chairs out just so. For a moment he lingers at the head of the table. He can break for a minute (twenty-two minutes) here; he’s still hot, and he’s going to have to button back up when he leaves for that bathroom with the connecting air duct. He undoes the third button of his shirt, takes a moment to breathe.  
  
_“Good boy.”_  
  
That breath gets caught in his throat. His grip on the back of the President’s chair tightens, enough that he’s afraid for a second that he might splinter it--but it’s hardwood, same as the table, and Reno isn’t built for breaking furniture. (Not this way.)  
  
“What the _fuck_ ,” Reno hisses, forcing himself to let go of the chair and scrub at his face. His voice comes out rough despite himself. They haven’t fucked around in months, but the second Rufus starts his shit up again Reno’s traitor body reacts like _this._ Just last week, during a meeting at the Junon base, the VP had refused to look him in the eye. Barely acknowledged he was there at all. Which--fine, whatever. If he wanted to pretend nothing ever happened, Reno could play ball, and that hadn’t been the first time Rufus had gone cold on him. He’s had worse company than his own hand, and he’s dealt with worse bullshit for a leaner paycheck.  
  
But _this_ is just goddamn insulting.  
  
_“Break my father’s chair, if you want. Or take a seat, and let me see what else you can do with your hands.”_ _  
  
_ Dirty talk over comms on the job checks every one of Reno’s nasty exhibitionist boxes, because he’s a predictable bastard. It goes straight to his dick and Rufus damn well knows it. He’s sorely tempted; it would be so easy to let Rufus talk him into jerking off in the president’s chair, make a show of it towards whatever miraculous long-range network camera Rufus jury-rigged in that air duct. It would be so easy. He wants to. He has time.  
  
(seventeen minutes.)  
  
He wants to.  
  
_“Reno in the president’s chair. What will he do?”_  
  
But something’s _wrong_.  
  
Reno hears it now--a slight drag on his _s_ ’s, his enunciation of each syllable. He’s only this precise when he’s pretending he’s more sober than he is, and Reno can’t believe he fell for it. Same shit, different day. He’s _tired_ of it.  
  
“Are you _drunk?”_  
  
_“No.”_ Rufus almost sounds offended.  
  
A pause.  
  
_“Drinking. Present tense.”_  
  
He’s never been more glad for soundproofing--he couldn’t repress his bark of a laugh if he tried.  
  
“So, what, you had a couple, got all hot and fuckin’ bothered, and when you couldn’t talk your guard into a fuck you decided to jerk me around, is that it?”  
  
The quiet says more than Rufus ever could.  
  
“Fuck this.” Reno snaps his briefcase closed, does one more scan of the room to make sure he hasn’t left any evidence, and stomps towards the door. “I got work to do, _sir._ ”  
  
_“Reno, stop.”_  
  
It’s not an order; they’ve worked together long enough for Reno to know when he can blow Rufus off, and when he needs to obey. This is a plea, and god fucking help him, he stops.  
  
It’s been a long time since Rufus said his name that way.  
  
(fourteen minutes.)  
  
Rufus sighs, a heavy wind of crackling white noise pushing through the earpiece.  
  
_“I… apologize. My behavior was out of line.”_ he says stiffly, after a moment. Just like that a switch is flipped: he’s cold, clipped, professional. Vice President Shinra. _“Report back when the mission is done.”_  
  
_Goddamnit._  
  
“Don’t,” Reno says, white-knuckling his briefcase. “Don’t fuckin’ _do_ that.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Reno swears. It doesn’t matter what he says, now; he can hear the tell-tale silence of a disconnected comm, and he knows that the VP isn’t listening. He does up the buttons of his shirt, but doesn’t bother tucking it back in; he’ll just fuck it up crawling through the air ducts, anyway. One more bug and then he can go get off to fantasies of beating the shit out of his boss in peace.  
  
A reel of potential scenarios is running through his head as he leaves the conference room--most of them come back around to choking the VP out, which is always a good time--and he doesn’t realize that someone is standing outside until he walks right into them. The poor idiot stumbles, and some amber liquid splashes onto Reno’s starchy white shirt.  
  
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says demurely, the office worker-mask falling neatly into place. “I didn’t see you there—”  
  
_Sir,_ he’s about to say. As if that ain’t the funniest shit that’s happened all night.  
  
“I should be the one apologizing,” Rufus Shinra says, carefully neutral. “I spilled my drink on _you_ , after all.”  
  
Sure enough, he’s got a glass of whisky in one hand, an earpiece in the other. He looks casual in a way Reno’s only ever seen inside of his own apartment; there’s no jacket, no tie, no layers of protective materia-enhanced gear. The top button of his shirt is undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing toned forearms and slender wrists. To anyone else the VP would look like he’s in his element, collected and comfortable. The crown prince, long away, now returned home. But Reno sees the faint flush of arousal creeping up Rufus’s neck and the drunk-slackness of his mouth; he sees him fidgeting with the earpiece, flipping it around the way he does with his damn coins.  
  
Rufus Shinra delegated a mission to Reno that a goddamn infant could do backwards and blindfolded.  
  
Rufus Shinra is in Shinra HQ, where Reno’s mission is, and not in Junon, where he’s supposed to be under house arrest.  
  
Shinra HQ did away with analog clocks a long time ago, but some crazed part of Reno’s brain thinks he can hear a second hand ticking away.  
  
(twelve minutes.)  
  
There’s no one else in the hallway.  
  
_Fuckit._ _  
  
_ Reno snatches Rufus’s whisky, grabs him by the wrist, and drags him back into the conference room. The door is heavy and made to slowly swing shut, because it’s _classy,_ but Reno tugs it closed with pure brute force.  
  
“Reno—”  
  
“Shut up,” Reno says through gritted teeth. He lets go of Rufus for a fraction of a second to slam the glass down on the table, away from him; the force of it splashes liquor on his hand. It occurs to him that there’s probably more money’s worth of whisky spilled on his shirt and hand than what he could buy with a full paycheck, which only stokes his anger.  
  
He glares at Rufus, and sucks the liquor off his palm. It tastes awful--Reno’s a cocktail man, himself--but the quiet, sharp inhale he receives in return is deeply satisfying. Rufus, by some miracle, decided to shut up. He’s standing by the door, earpiece still in hand, watching Reno with an inscrutable expression. He hasn’t moved.  
  
Fine, then.  
  
Reno pushes Rufus against the door and crowds into his space, kissing him so roughly that it feels like he’s trying to tear Rufus’s lips off. Of course the bastard’s into it; he’s as nasty as Reno is, and he tries to swallow it back but Reno can hear his moan as he bites sharply into his lower lip.  
  
Rufus wanted _him._ Rufus came here for _him,_ got tipsy and worked up watching _him_ , and now he’s _here_ under Reno’s hands for the first time in--months. A year, maybe?  
  
He could do anything right now, and Rufus would let him.  
  
If he were a better person, Reno would back off.  
  
He’s not a better person.  
  
Old habits die hard; fuckin’ sue him.  
  
He has the presence of mind to flip the manual lock on the door before he reaches for Rufus’s belt. It’s a fantastically simple thing to undo a single belt, pop a button, and pull down just one zipper to be able to get his hand in Rufus’s pants. Reno’s no slouch when it comes to stripping his partners, but working through all those layers was always such a goddamn chore. Worth it, in the end, but it’s nice to not have to struggle for once.  
  
Rufus is slick and hot and Reno slips a finger in easy as anything, eases his assault on Rufus’s mouth just long enough to hear that sweet hitch in his breath as he rubs small circles inside.  
  
“Reno,” Rufus tries again, but Reno bites at his throat and his name turns into a quiet moan. Like magic.  
  
“If you wanted me to fuck you, you shoulda just asked,” he says against Rufus’s throat. It’s pale and unblemished; Reno wants to mottle it black and blue. “Now there’s no time.”  
  
(eight minutes.)  
  
Two fingers, shallow thrusts, grinding his palm against Rufus’s clit on every other stroke. Fucking is more of an art than a science, but Reno has studied Rufus’s body more than anything he did in training, and he knows how to get the guy off hard and fast. And Rufus has never been _loud_ , always too careful, too restrained, too lost in the mire of his own head--but that just means Reno’s gotten _real_ good at listening for the point when his breathing gets strained and shallow.  
  
Rufus winds his arms over Reno’s shoulders and pulls roughly at his hair, yanking his face up from where Reno is mauling the meat of his throat to drag him into another kiss; then a second, a third, until they blur together in a haze of spit and ragged breathing. Rufus’s hips are bucking against Reno’s hand, grinding down hard against every thrust of his fingers.  
  
Not an order, but a plea.  
  
Reno fumbles with his free hand to shove Rufus’s pants down below his ass, just to get that tightly woven fabric out of his way, twists his wrist at an angle he knows he’ll regret in the morning, and adds a third finger. The stuttering, swallowed-back moan he gets in reward is absolutely fucking delicious.  
  
He could get off like this, if he wanted. He’s shorter than Rufus and his leg is extremely conveniently positioned for him to grind against. He could. He _has._ But there’s something heady about wringing an orgasm out of Rufus without chasing one himself; something powerful in fucking him senseless and then just walking away. _You need me, I don’t need you._  
  
_Yeah, I got wound up just hearing your voice over comms. Yeah, I jerk off just about every night thinking of you, and yeah I get fucked up trying to decide if I want to kiss you stupid or beat you bloody. I hate when you pretend I’m not there, like I’m just another underling, that none of this happened and if it did then it didn’t mean a single fuckin’ thing. Yeah, I miss you._  
  
_But don’t get it twisted. I don’t need you._  
  
There’s a cusp, the event horizon, that if Reno does his job just right—  
  
There it is. A small sound escapes Rufus, swallowed down but not quickly enough. Reno cradles the meat of Rufus’ throat in one hand and presses down--just enough to make him tilt his head back as he sucks in breath after stilted breath, forcing quiet but viscerally satisfying noises out of him as Reno fucks him through his orgasm.  
  
His wrist aches, and he’s _painfully_ hard, but Rufus is sweaty and panting and sagging against the door as he comes down, which really makes it all worth it. Reno briefly entertains the notion of choking him out and leaving him here, just vengeance’s sake, but ultimately decides to be magnanimous in his victory and eases the pressure on his throat. He spares a glance at his watch.  
  
(two minutes.)  
  
“Shit,” Reno mumbles thickly. “Time’s up, boss, we gotta go.”  
  
He takes a second to adjust his dick, trying to get it to be not so obvious that he’s sporting a violent hard-on, but he abandons that futile quest _very_ quickly. Instead he yanks Rufus’s pants back up, does up his fly and buttons and re-buckles his belt.  
  
They can’t leave through the front door--they’d definitely get spotted, and at _best_ Rufus would get chewed out for clearly being both drunk and completely fucked out. And that’s to say nothing of the fact that he’s _supposed to be under house arrest. In Junon._  
  
His wound-up sex brain is having a hard time rolling over for his work brain, and it takes five seconds too long for Reno to remember that the air duct is a thing that exists--five seconds wasted, five seconds that put Rufus closer to danger. With more grace than could reasonably be expected of him, Reno hops up on the conference table and reaches up towards the air duct covering.  
  
Rufus, predictably, is still slouching against the door.  
  
“Boss,” Reno says irritably, pushing the thin metal sheet up with his fingertips, “ _c’mon._ You can have your post-cum nap later, when your father isn’t _literally sixty seconds away.”_  
  
No response. Of course.  
  
Reno shoves the sheet aside and hops back down to the floor, careful to avoid disturbing the papers he so carefully laid out.  
  
“We have to go,” he says, taking his boss by the wrists and tugging him towards the table. Rufus is totally unresponsive; his expression is serene, at least, but he barely seems to be aware that Reno is talking at him.  
  
Maybe he fucked him _too_ well?  
  
(forty seconds.)  
  
“You gotta work with me here— ”  
  
(thirty seconds.)  
  
“ _C’mon—”_  
  
(twenty seconds.)  
  
“Boss, _please—”_  
  
(ten seconds.)  
  
“I really don’t want you to get fucked over because of this, Rufus’--”  
  
(time.)  
  
There’s a split second where Reno sees the sly smirk flicker across Rufus’ face, and he’s able to think, _ah, I fucked up_ , before the man grabs him by the arm and throws him bodily off the table, sending him careening into the president’s hardwood chair. He almost tips over; Rufus is quick enough to catch him before he falls, but doesn’t spare him the humiliation of pinwheeling to try to right himself.  
  
“What the _fuck—”_  
  
“Settle down, now,” Rufus says, more lackadaisical than he has any goddamn right to be, all things considered. He perches on the edge of the conference table, papers scattered every which way, and has somehow retrieved what’s left of his drink. He takes a sip.  
  
Reno tries to get up, blustering, but Rufus just gives him a none-too-gentle kick in the chest to force him back down. It _hurts._ His dick throbs, the fucking traitor.  
  
“The directors—”  
  
“Don’t have a meeting tonight.” Rufus toes off his boots, and places a single black-socked foot squarely on Reno’s crotch. Reno swallows.  
  
“ _You_ booked the conference room.” _God_ , he’s stupid.  
  
“For an hour. Take off your shirt.” He’s so fucking smug, Reno wants to—  
  
Reno doesn’t know what he wants. He takes off his shirt.  
  
“Good boy.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Reno snaps, heat rushing to his face.  
  
“That’s the idea, yes.”  
  
Reno clenches the arms of the president’s chair as Rufus wastes absolutely no time stripping down--doesn’t make a show of it, just gets straight to business. There’s a glistening sheen to the crotch of Rufus’s briefs, which Reno catches the barest glimpse of before Rufus tosses them over his shoulder and onto the table, and the thatch of pale blonde hair between his legs is snarled and wet.  
  
“Pants off, sweet thing.”  
  
Reno bares his teeth. He takes off his pants.  
  
It’s a big chair--an executive’s chair, a _president’s_ chair--so there’s plenty of room for Rufus to clamber onto Reno’s lap. He settles himself comfortably against Reno’s dick, taking just a moment to grind lightly against him before he leans back to top off his glass of whisky from the president’s stash.  
  
“Would you like a drink?”  
  
“I _need_ a drink,” Reno gasps, pitching forward as a pulse of _want_ shoots through him. He shivers; after a second he manages to relax his grip on the chair enough to instead palm Rufus’s ass, run his thumbs along the sharp lines of his hips. “You’re killin’ me.”  
  
Rufus hums, entirely too pleased with himself, and contorts again to retrieve the glass Reno had set out not half an hour before. He’s just showing off, now-- _look at me, I can torture Reno and pour him a drink at the same time._ He passes the glass to Reno, who knocks it back instantly, like a shot, and tosses the glass aside. Rufus wrinkles his nose.  
  
“That’s expensive liquor, Reno,” he says disdainfully. “You’re meant to savor it.”  
  
“I’d rather savor _you_.”  
  
_That_ makes Rufus laugh, a surprised and utterly unrefined snort of a thing, and--god, Reno hasn’t heard him make that sound in a long time. Not since they were teenagers, maybe.  
  
He wants to hear it again. Again, and always.  
  
_Don’t get it twisted; I don’t need you._  
  
“It’s good to be back,” Rufus says quietly, leaning in to brush the lightest of kisses against Reno’s mouth. He tries to push into it, deepen it, but Rufus pulls away.  
  
Rufus always pulls away.  
  
But doesn’t he also always come back?  
  
Reno’s been over this ad nauseum, made himself sick doing laps around what he thinks the logic might be. Rufus will fuck him, kiss him so gently, let him play with his hair, let himself be held as they fall together into an uneasy warmonger’s sleep; then, seemingly at random, he’ll shutter off, go fully professional.

_Rufus—_  
  
_Report back when the mission is complete, Reno._  
  
_Yes, sir._

Then, again: the teasing, the flirting, the salacious comments and irresistible suggestions. Unexpectedly, the tenderness. The sweetness. It makes Reno ache with how badly he wants it.  
  
Rufus leans down to kiss him again, so sweetly. Then again. Again. Again. With his free hand he feels up Reno’s chest, pinching and rolling his nipple, tonguing deep into his mouth to draw out heady, whining groans. He lets his glass fall to the floor, expensive whisky soaking into the expensive carpet.  
  
“That cost _money_ ,” Reno chides weakly. He’s rewarded with another snort.  
  
Rufus pushes himself up on his knees--forcing Reno to bite back a cry at the loss of contact--and takes Reno’s dick in hand so that he can sink onto it in a single smooth motion, like liquid silk. He bottoms out effortlessly. Reno can only groan, and try to keep his hips from bucking up like he so desperately wants to. He’s only partially successful.  
  
A ghost of a kiss. Reno whines with want.  
  
“I missed this,” Rufus breathes into Reno’s mouth, whisper-soft. It almost sounds like a question; like he isn’t sure if it’s true. If he wants it to be true.  
  
_I don’t need you._  
  
“I missed you.”  
  
Reno lets out a thin, shaky breath. Rufus is grinding against him in tiny, languid circles, and Reno has a death grip on his ass.  
  
“An hour, you said?”  
  
Rufus smirks, though the sharpness of it is lost with how pink and swollen his mouth is, how mottled the skin of his throat. He’s trying to exert some measure of control, but his eyes are glassy, and his breaths are coming small and staggered. He looks debauched, completely fuckable.  
  
“I lied,” he says, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. “Two hours. Then R&D’s got the room.”  
  
“Okay,” Reno says. “Okay.”  
  
_I don’t need you._  
  
But, fuck, Reno _wants_ him.  
  
“Two hours,” he says. “Let’s make it count.” 

**Author's Note:**

> but if reno is fucking his boss, what's up with rude?? is he just a content bachelor?? nay: rude is in a long-term committed relationship with andrea rhodea and they both have massive crushes on tifa lockhart. in this essay i will--[i am taken out by turk snipers] 
> 
> find me on twitter @sinnjamin


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